


In Fire's Bloom

by CourierNinetyTwo



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/stay night - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 09:15:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14691036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourierNinetyTwo/pseuds/CourierNinetyTwo
Summary: Brynhildr knows Jeanne wants something from her, but she doesn't know why.





	In Fire's Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> Commissioned by funblade!

Jeanne Alter had no intention of being heroic.

Brynhildr knew that every time she watched Jeanne in combat, her laughter a wicked howl across the battlefield as dozens of black lances impaled her enemies, and any who survived were consumed in a white-hot blaze. They were her Master's enemies too, of course, and it was rare for anyone to comment on the casual cruelty when Jeanne was destroying demonic forces warping space and time.

Yet there were moments when Brynhildr saw signs of something else. Jeanne was always the first to volunteer for the fight, even if she had just spent day after day in the field, and stalked around Chaldea fuming with frustration if another Servant was more suitable for the task.

It was as if Jeanne was desperate to be useful, _needed_.

The first time they fought side-by-side, Brynhildr was surprised when Jeanne's war cry made her blood sear, pushing every attack harder and faster. It felt like a dragon's magic, and Brynhildr was all too familiar with dragons -- as well as their slayers. Jeanne often decried herself as a witch, staggering off the battlefield before their Master or anyone else could check for injuries, leaving Brynhildr to wonder if those dark spells alone were any comfort.

There were other Alters in their Master's retinue, but Jeanne gave them all a wide berth. She was rarely in anyone's company, in fact, and Brynhildr surrendered to the compulsion to follow Jeanne and prove that for herself. More than once, she found Jeanne curled up in a corner in complete solitude, eyes infused with a scorching glow that never stilled. Perhaps she couldn't stand to be close to anyone, for intimacy always came with a price. Brynhildr knew the cost of it too well.

She remembered burning and burning, the fire in her heart relentless compared to the inferno that swallowed her flesh, claiming bone for ash until her Spirit was called forward in time.

Every time Jeanne's incandescence devoured an enemy in front of her, Brynhildr shivered. It was a flame not her own, starved and frenzied, insatiable; it ignited under the Avenger's skin, a bonfire built by breath and will, that without a target would smother itself for lack of air. Jeanne couldn't stop burning either; she always would, feasting on rage and revenge until their Master had no enemies left.

What would happen after that, Brynhildr was not sure.

She was also unsure why she kept catching Jeanne looking at her. At times it was after the heat of a particularly difficult battle, but it happened in Chaldea too, when they were gathered for a meeting or happened to pass one another in one of the odd, sterile white halls. After weeks of that golden gaze slipping across her skin, curiosity's thorns grew too sharp to ignore, and Brynhildr wanted answers.

There was no chance to ask until their Master paired them together again, commanding that they hunt down a powerful horde of Berserkers. Jeanne cleaved through most of them on her own, and Brynhildr pinned down every straggler with her lance. The last was a corrupt shadow of Lancelot, screaming and thrashing until Jeanne silenced him with a brutal display of her Noble Phantasm, the length of her dark blade summoning countless stakes to bind the mimic in an endless conflagration.

"Pathetic," Jeanne muttered, sheathing her sword as the wind carried the ashen remnants of their fight away.

"He was a tortured man given a painful death," Brynhildr countered, her voice soft. There was no judgment in the words, but she wanted to see how Jeanne would react.

The Avenger's jaw tightened for a split second. "I suppose."

"What did you see when you looked at him?" Brynhildr asked, and was unsurprised when Jeanne's response was silence, paired with a baleful glare. "Is it the same thing you see when you look at me?"

Shock rippled through the other woman's expression before she could chain it away, eyes averting from Brynhildr's. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I have caught you watching me, Jeanne Alter." She knew Jeanne preferred _Alter_ to _D'Arc_ , a point of separation between her and the original. "It is difficult not to wonder why."

"We fight together, and I have eyes." Jeanne nearly spit her response, crossing her arms around her chest, tight and defensive.

"You fight alongside many Servants." With careful steps, Brynhildr severed the distance between them, close enough to taste the bitter brimstone that coiled around Jeanne after such a prolonged fight. "Yet I only find you staring at me."

"Shut up." The words barely fit through Jeanne's clenched teeth, bared like a predator's. "You're seeing things."

She could have blamed curiosity, yes, but it was more than that that convinced Brynhildr to brush her fingers against Jeanne's armor. The Avenger staggered back as if she had just been struck, reaching for the hilt of her sword.

Another possibility wormed its way through Brynhildr's mind. "Are you afraid of me?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Jeanne scoffed, gauntlet-clad fingers resting on the pommel but going no further -- for now. "This has nothing to do with you. Not the real you, anyway."

"The real me?" Brynhildr frowned, then remembered a story their Master had told her some weeks ago. "Ah, yes. You were discovered with all those fake Servants."

She hadn't realized one of them had been a copy of her.

"They're all gone now, so none of it matters," Jeanne insisted, but her shoulders stayed tight, as if manacles had wrenched them back. "She wasn't you. She wasn't anything like you. It's irrelevant."

Perhaps that was the answer. Brynhildr could understand why such a duplicate would bring unease, if not such stalwart defensiveness. Yet her curiosity remained unsatisfied, a serpent twisting through her gut and seeking escape, ready to eat its own tail if that's what it took.

She let the matter drop for weeks, if only because Jeanne seemed determined to avoid her. The Avenger would grab whoever was closest whenever their Master asked for a pair to fight, dragging them out before anyone could protest.

For the first time in an era, Brynhildr was cold. No one else she battled beside burned like Jeanne did -- not hot enough, not strong enough.

With the Avenger's insistent absence, Brynhildr's frustration built upon itself like logs on a pyre. She hadn't done anything wrong; if anything, she was kinder to Jeanne than many, who feared her rage and corruption in equal measure. Brynhildr knew there was more beneath past the wreath of flame, and the longer they spent apart, the more she yearned to discover it.

The next time Jeanne came back from a battle, Brynhildr cornered her, far from their Master and the other Servants.

"What did that other Brynhildr do to make you hate me?" Brynhildr said, her voice sharper than she meant it to be. "Was she unkind to you?"

Jeanne opened her mouth, twisting with sadistic outrage, before closing it again. Her defiance flickered and fluttered under Brynhildr's stare, and when Brynhildr took a step forward, an answer snapped out of Jeanne's throat. "No! She loved me!"

"She..." It took a blink for Brynhildr to process the words. "She loved you?"

"With a hollow and twisted heart, yes. That is all she had." Jeanne looked down towards the floor. "My desires could never bring life to more than that. Nothing like you."

Love was a madness. Brynhildr had taken that truth as deep inside her as the flames she cast herself upon long ago, beset by treachery and the agony of Sigurd being claimed by another. Even thinking of him turned her thoughts to a cauldron of venom, no matter how fast her heart beat in the warrior's presence. To dare near Sigurd was to kill him.

To dare near Jeanne was...

Brynhildr's fingers tipped beneath the Avenger's jaw, drawing those golden eyes to meet her own. "Do you wish she was back? Do you wish she was here instead of me?"

Jeanne swallowed hard, then shook her head. "I am cursed, and truly so. For the one that would ever be able to love me is not the one that draws my eye."

The jealousy rising in Brynhildr's chest like a tide collapsed upon itself. With her tongue heavy as stone, she couldn't speak, and Jeanne clearly took it as a denial, pulling away from Brynhildr's gentle touch.

"I will never be righteous enough," Jeanne hissed low in her throat, "I am just a shadow burned on the wall compared to Jeanne D'Arc."

It could be true. Brynhildr acknowledged that truth, held it on her tongue, and let the words melt away. Close enough to feel the Avenger breathe, she was warm again, nourished by the same fire that wished to consume her whole.

"You are righteous enough for me," Brynhildr whispered.

She pressed her lips to Jeanne's in a soft kiss, allowing a chance for retreat if it was unwanted. Jeanne shuddered, then returned the kiss with such ardent fury that Brynhildr's breath was cauterized from her lungs. It was a hunger that turned air to ash, claiming her mouth with the force of a brand.

When they broke apart, Brynhildr tasted copper on her tongue, the echo of blood imprinted on Jeanne's bottom lip. Who had bitten who, she couldn't tell, not with with the haze of need emblazoned through heart and head. And lower still, if she was being honest with herself.

"How can you want me?" Jeanne leveled the words like an accusation, her bright gaze falling back to Brynhildr's mouth. "I cannot be that saint. I am different."

"I am not looking to find her beneath your skin, Jeanne," Brynhildr said, framing the words as a promise, an oath. "I swear it."

"I have no gentle love for you, Brynhildr." She liked the way Jeanne's mouth formed her name, then realized it was the first time she ever heard the other Servant say it out loud. "I have no kindness."

"Kindness would bid me to drive my lance through your heart." For a second, Brynhildr could picture it, Jeanne impaled amidst the fire they shared, and shook the image from her head before it could compel her. "Give me your rage. Give me your hunger."

The second kiss felt like she was trying to tame a wild beast with only lips and tongue. Jeanne demanded more and more and _more_ until Brynhildr could do little but gasp, a weakness in her knees bringing their bodies together. When her hands clutched at Jeanne's armor, the Avenger froze in place.

"Do you not want me to touch you?" Brynhildr asked softly.

Jeanne mumbled something in French that Brynhildr couldn't even begin to comprehend, but by the tone, it was a curse. "You know that I can change myself, yes? My body bends to my will."

Brynhildr nodded. She had seen as such before, when Jeanne appeared one day in battle with a mane of long hair that wasn't there hours previous. It flowed to her hips like a flag, yet remained untouched by the fervor of combat.

"Then know that I am like I am because I wish to be," Jeanne insisted, holding Brynhildr's violet gaze with her own. "Do you understand?"

"I do understand, but I promise, I'm not expecting anything." With a smile, Brynhildr brushed her fingers along the fur lining the top of Jeanne's cloak. "Nothing but what you are."

The look she received in turn was ravenous, yet tinged with disbelief. Brynhildr couldn't be sure what Jeanne wanted -- _needed_ \-- to hear, but she could act in its stead. Gathering folds of the cloak between her hands, Brynhildr seized them to pull Jeanne into another kiss, her knees bumping against the Avenger's as they leaned into one another.

"Someone is going to see us in the hall," Jeanne muttered against her mouth.

There was no shame in Jeanne's voice. If anything, her tone was dark and possessive, promising that being interrupted would forge a new hearth for her anger to grow. Brynhildr glanced around them, then pulled Jeanne towards the closest door. It was white and nondescript, like so many other parts of Chaldea, but when the door slid open, there was a bed and a few other amenities waiting on the other side.

She doubted anyone currently slept there, though. The bed had no pillows or sheets.

"Is this enough privacy for you?" Brynhildr asked.

"I suppose." Jeanne's fingers squeezed at Brynhildr's hip while she surveyed the room. "Although not where I would take a Valkyrie, if I had the choice."

Brynhildr opened her mouth to soothe Jeanne's concerns, only to stop when the Avenger stripped off the heavy barrier of her cloak and spread it across the bed. It was so reflexively, unexpectedly chivalrous that she had to bite her tongue not to comment. The rough touch that guided her down against the field of black velvet and dark fur was enough of a distraction, and Brynhildr turned her attention to finding the buckles of Jeanne's armor.

Her own came off with ease, boots and gauntlets displaced before Jeanne's bare hands slid up Brynhildr's thighs, tracing the rings of ink tattooed around each one. Brynhildr gasped, parting her knees wide enough that Jeanne's body could fit between then, and arched her back to allow the other woman's fingers could find the back of her corset. Jeanne wasn't careful so much as determined, and Brynhildr scarcely had a moment to breathe before the black length of her dress was pulled up and over her head.

One moment she was shrouded in darkness, the next looking into the depths of Jeanne's golden eyes. Eyes that swept over her from head to toe before the Avenger's hands stripped the last scrap of fabric on Brynhildr's body away, baring the hint of white curls between her thighs, the folds beneath glistening with arousal. It had been a long time since she had thought of joining with anyone, longer still that she had actually sought another's touch, but Jeanne's avarice was too compelling to deny.

Brynhildr's fingers caressed up smooth black stockings to the drape of Jeanne's skirt, hiking it up out of the way to run her hands openly over alabaster skin, learning the lean, lithe muscle in the Avenger's frame. In a flare of impatience, Jeanne slipped free of the sheath of fabric, casting it aside on top of their tangled armor, and Brynhildr let out a hum of appreciation at the sight of Jeanne's breasts above her.

She followed the sharp line of Jeanne's collarbones down to softer curves, fitting them in her palms, and Jeanne moaned through grit teeth. "Why are you being so gentle?"

"I didn't think you wanted me to hurt you," Brynhildr whispered back, an experimental squeeze of her fingers earning another stilted sound of pleasure, "Did you want to hurt me?"

Jeanne bowed her head, lips an inch away from Brynhildr's. "I've never been able to do anything else."

"Touch me." Desire made the words a plea and not an order, as if the thought of being left aching and alone was too much to bear. "You know how much I can endure."

Brynhildr shivered as Jeanne started to kiss down her throat, using teeth and tongue in equal measure, and as the Avenger's hands explored her body, they lit up every nerve until Brynhildr's skin felt like a chain of stars about to supernova. There was so much strength contained in Jeanne's fingers, but they never dared near cruelty; no, it was longing powerful enough to be called greed, but Brynhildr beckoned to that selfish fire, and had no intention of snuffing it out.

When her own hands tapered down Jeanne's ribs, down the pale plane of her stomach to where the start to dark underwear began, Brynhildr's knuckles brushed against a faint bulge. Jeanne's entire body tensed, eyes snapping upward, and in that moment, her breath felt like a dragon's over the war-drum beat of Brynhildr's heart.

She wanted to whisper _burn me until our ashes mix together_ , but what came out was, "Can I touch you there?"

Jeanne considered the question for a moment, then nodded. "Just don't tease. I don't...have the patience for it."

Brynhildr almost laughed; she didn't think Jeanne had the patience for much at all, considering how quickly they had gotten in this position. She eased Jeanne's underwear down and out of the way, and felt a thrill of pleasure at the soft shaft that pressed against her stomach. Her fingers had just wrapped around it when Jeanne's palm cupped between her thighs, and Brynhildr moaned, the sound escaping far louder than she meant it to.

She was wet, visibly so, and wanted to have Jeanne the same way. The quick, firm strokes of her hand around Jeanne were nearly in sync to the pair of fingers the Avenger slipped inside her, savoring the stretch around each thrust. When drops of pre-come rose under Brynhildr's thumb, she spread it in a sticky mess around where Jeanne was sensitive, earning a rough curse and a third finger, pumping hard and fast until Brynhildr was trembling from every relentless pulse of pleasure.

"Can you--" Brynhildr had to stifle a cry by turning her head against Jeanne's cloak, burying her face in the other woman's scent and the dark crush of velvet, "--I want your heat inside me."

"You're so warm already," Jeanne whispered in Brynhildr's ear, then nipped the lobe with the edge of her teeth, "What if it's too much?"

"I want it to be too much," Brynhildr confessed, clenching tight around Jeanne's fingers as the truth touched the air.

That must not have been the answer Jeanne expected, from the surprise that flickered through her gilded gaze, but she withdrew her fingers nonetheless. Brynhildr whimpered at their absence, but the same slick hand pinned her wrist down to the cloak, breaking her touch away from Jeanne's shaft. Her eyes nearly rolled back when Jeanne brushed against her clit, hard and aching for attention, before a tilt of the Avenger's hips brought them together, enkindling a desperate, dripping union.

Jeanne gasped hard in Brynhildr's ear, like she was staggered by the feeling, but recovered by burying her face in the other woman's shoulder and started to move. Their hips rocked in a matching rhythm, fervent and fast, coaxing passion to life until Brynhildr couldn't think past the blissful friction. Her mind was awash in white fire, stealing vision and breath alike as her nails sunk into Jeanne's back, arms looped around the Avenger like a stake she was tied to.

She felt the spike of tension in Jeanne's hips, and that quickening drew a cry from Brynhildr's throat. There was a growl of her name before Jeanne spent, and every thread of tension in Brynhildr's body went molten, ready to snap. When the Avenger's fingers found her clit, rubbing it in tight circles while heat still pulsed deep inside her, Brynhildr's orgasm crested, flooding her with so much ecstasy that it was almost torturous.

Jeanne was everywhere -- the cloak caressing her back like a second set of hands, the breath forced into her lungs by a sudden kiss, the fire in Brynhildr's heart that wanted to burst to life again. It was such a relief for flame to touch flame, for that painful understanding to be laid bare between them, consuming until everything that hurt was swallowed whole.

Tears rose to Brynhildr's eyes, and when she started to cry into Jeanne's shoulder as their bodies settled, part of her was braced for a harsh rebuke. Instead, calloused fingers began to stroke through her hair, slow and measured.

"Stay," Jeanne whispered, "We'll burn together."

That was all she had ever wanted.

\--

 


End file.
